


Come on, Snake

by Mx_Maneater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1950s Slang, Auror Trainee Draco Malfoy, Auror Trainee Harry Potter, Crack Treated Seriously, Dancing, M/M, Miscommunication, Only Harry and Draco would mess this up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Maneater/pseuds/Mx_Maneater
Summary: There's this slang from the 1950s that can either mean "let's fight" or "let's dance."  As you've probably guessed, Harry and Draco go in with different interpretations.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 17
Kudos: 123





	Come on, Snake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plant_boi_potter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plant_boi_potter/gifts).



> Thank you [plant_boi_potter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plant_boi_potter) for this slang of inspiration! I really, _really_ meant this to be a drabble, but we know how I am about concision...

"Come on, snake—let’s rattle.” Malfoy stepped into Harry’s personal space with the singular confidence of someone issuing a challenge they knew they would win. His lips were quirked into that infuriating grin of his, the one he leveled at Harry whenever he botched a drill in training; the one that made him want to punch Malfoy in the face. Which he should have been doing now, except… 

What exactly did that mean? _Come on, snake_ — _let’s rattle_. They were supposed to be fighting, he thought; all the other Auror trainees were watching them supposedly demonstrate hand-to-hand combat. But he could’ve sworn he’d heard Malfoy’s taunt before, but in a completely different context—

That’s right! It had been in one of Aunt Petunia’s movies. Not the ones she’d watched with Vernon, obviously, but the ones she’d play in the hours when her husband was off at work. They were romantic, mostly, so Harry could understand her embarrassment, but he suspected it was also the fact that many of them were _American_ that she hid them so fervently. 

Bored out of his mind, Harry would sometimes watch from the entryway corner. It was only a few steps from his cupboard, so he could easily slip back inside if she got up or went for the door. It had been in one of these “frivolous” American dramas that he’d heard the phrase originally. 

Harry came back to himself, realizing he’d been hesitating. That was no good; he didn’t want to seem weak to Malfoy, or anyone else. Malfoy was clearly toying with him—throwing that phrase around and expecting Harry to look like an idiot when he didn’t know it. Hah. Well, he’d show _Malfoy_ that he was just as educated and worldly as a posh, insufferable _prat_.

He stepped forward, earning a wry eyebrow-raise from his opponent—which quickly turned to a look of shock when Harry didn’t stop when he reached respectable hitting range. 

_Oh, so he really thought I’d chicken out?_ Harry thought. The very idea drove him on with indignation.

He grabbed Malfoy’s raised hands and— _just like in the movie_ —pulled the man against him into an intimate dancing stance. 

“P-Potter, what the _fuck_?!” Malfoy spluttered, backpedaling a step and unbalancing when Harry held firm to their interlaced grip. And really, that was rich, because Harry was just answering _Malfoy’s_ challenge. If he hadn’t been willing to see it through, then he shouldn’t have issued it in the first place.

Harry leaned into their shared grip to take the first step, but Malfoy squared his feet and pressed back like he was fighting off all the horrors of the universe. “Potter—"

 _Maybe this was part of the challenge?_ he wondered. Prove that he could dance well enough to get even Malfoy to join in—a tall order, given Harry’s history with dancing, but he was nothing if not a Gryffindor. 

Reversing his weight backwards, he watched Malfoy stumble in surprise and took that opportunity to draw him closer for a spin. 

“Seriously, what the—”

Harry tugged him back the other way, before he could continue his complaint, and Malfoy spun messily back to face him. The man’s face was red—likely from rage—and Harry laughed to see his nemesis in such disarray over a battle tactic he himself had chosen. 

“Are we really doing this right now?” Malfoy asked, after Harry pulled him into a sequence of just-passable steps that he had only seen before in movies. His voice sounded resigned and wary, and though he’d stopped fighting every movement Harry made, his body was still unbearably tense. He wished Malfoy would relax a little, so they could—

“We’re supposed to be _fighting_ , Potter—the other trainees are _watching us_ …"

“Then why’d you ask to dance?” Harry finally erupted out of annoyance. “ _I_ know what we’re supposed to be doing.”

“Ask you to—” Malfoy sputtered, coming to an abrupt halt on Harry’s toe. “I didn’t _ask you to dance_ , you berk!” 

Harry stilled, perplexity overcoming him in a sudden, all-encompassing wave. “What do you mean? You said, ‘come on snake, let’s rattle’—”

“Which is a come-on! No…not like _that._ Like _fighting_ ,” he asserted rather desperately. “It’s an invitation to fight—” A look of dawning realization came over him, and he his face behind a hand. “Oh, dear _Merlin_ , you really thought I was asking you _dance_.” 

In the terrible moment that followed, Harry was suddenly very aware that: a) he was currently holding a Malfoy that had apparently _not_ asked him to dance by the hips and b) a whole room of their peers had just witnessed Harry make the most colossal mistake of his life. 

“Oh.” Slowly, as if defusing a bomb, he extricated himself from the man and stepped back, face absolutely burning. He needed to leave. _Right now_.

“Potter—”

Was that _pity_ on Malfoy’s face? Whatever it was, he couldn’t bear it. He sped from the room, not bothering to wonder how it looked to their audience. 

***

“—and then, instead of fighting him, Harry grabbed the ferret’s hands and pulled him into a dance! Can you believe that?” Ron threw an arm around his shoulder and scuffed at his hair, despite Harry’s huff of irritation.

“What, really?! Harry, what _possessed_ you?” Ginny’s face was flushed from laughing so much. Beside her, Luna giggled over her butterbeer. 

It had been a whole week since the incident, and Ron still hadn’t grown tired of telling the story; Ginny and Luna had better be the last ones he’d recount it for in Harry’s presence, though he didn’t have high hopes.

“I just—”

“— _misinterpreted what he said_ ,” Ron spoke along in unison. “That’s all he’ll ever say. But what _I_ think is that he heard rumors of that article that was going to come out two days later about Malfoy’s dalliance with some French bloke a few months ago, and he decided to turn the tables on him!”

“Ronald, that’s not funny,” Hermione cut in. 

Ron withered a bit under her glare. “Oh, c’mon. It’s just Malfoy. It’s not like _he_ hasn’t enacted immoral plans against _us_.” 

“Still. That’s…just leave it.” She glanced worriedly in Harry’s direction, which he pretended he didn’t see. He was fully aware that he’d been acting out of sorts since that day at training, and he didn’t want to parse out to her—or himself—exactly why that was. 

It had _nothing_ to do with the way Malfoy’s body felt against his. Somehow both comfortable and electrifying. It certainly wasn’t the way their dance had lingered in Harry’s mind ever since, replaying with startlingly clarity whenever he caught sight of the man from across the room. 

The worst part about realizing that Malfoy hadn’t wanted to dance with him was finding that he, himself, _wanted_ to dance with _Malfoy_. 

Since the incident, Malfoy seemed to have gotten over whatever sympathy he felt for Harry too, as he’d been more infuriating than ever. In the middle of tactical lectures, he would find Malfoy watching him—but whenever their gazes met, Malfoy’s face would morph into a smirk. A smirk that told Harry he had lost, that Malfoy had beaten him in a game Harry had invented quite by accident. 

It made him furious. But at least when he was angry, he could push down the welling sense of embarrassment at being forced to dance with Malfoy, then discovering that no one was forcing him but himself.

Harry sipped moodily at his drink. He was so lost in thought that he barely noticed Ron clearing his throat several times—and only responded when his friend jabbed his sharply in the ribs. 

“Harry, _look_.” 

He glanced up to see what everyone had turned towards. His heart jackrabbited. 

It was Malfoy. Of _course_ if fucking was. Standing there, unwinding his scarf without a care in the world, before the backdrop of Zabini and several other Slytherins making themselves at home in the pub. 

Malfoy’s gaze, of course, landed on Harry with the smug beginnings of a smirk. “Potter! Fancy seeing you here.” 

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry asked flatly. 

His grey eyes gleamed in the dim lighting. “Just here for a social outing, I’m afraid. Why, you want to ‘rattle?’”

Ginny let out a bark of laughter before clapping a hand to her mouth, and Harry glared at her in betrayal before turning his scowl back on Malfoy. “Shut up, Malfoy. Are you looking for a dance this time, or a fight?” 

The man tossed his scarf and coat over the back of a chair at the table next to theirs and then met his gaze with a sly grin. “Hmm, which to choose? We all know which _you_ prefer.” 

“Shut—” Harry flew to his feet, only to halt when he realized there was nothing he could really say to that. After all, it was _true._ Admitting this to himself, finally, he felt his shoulders sag, and he considered just sitting back down. 

He must’ve looked pitiful, because Malfoy didn’t wait for his floundering before he continued. “Alright, _fine_ , Potter. I’ll humor you.” 

Harry’s head snapped up to Malfoy, as the man took a step closer and, impossibly, offered a hand. 

“Shall we?”

Harry glanced confusedly between his face and the hand. “What?”

Malfoy’s grin widened, as if Harry had walked right into his trap. “Shall we _dance_?”

“ _What?!_ ”

Harry could feel his face heating up, and he looked desperately to his friends for guidance. Ginny was watching avidly, like this was a semifinals Quidditch game, and Luna looked equally invested beside her. Ron, on the other hand, was rolling his eyes and groaning something like “please no, Harry; you definitely don’t have to,” while Hermione scanned Harry’s face with concern before raising her eyebrows at whatever she found and visibly relaxing. 

“I…”

“You don’t _have_ to, of course,” Malfoy continued, his voice heavy with amusement. “If you feel your moves aren’t up to snuff for so public a venue.”

Harry chugged the rest of his drink, slamming the stein down onto the table when he finished. “Let’s do this,” he ground out.

He ignored Ron’s wail of “Harry, _why_ ” in the background. 

Malfoy took up one hundred percent of his attention. The victorious glimmer to his eyes, the teasing lilt to his lips, the sharp angles of the bones in his wrist as Harry took his outstretched hand…

With a sharp tug, Malfoy pulled him in close. Unprepared for the sudden movement, Harry didn’t even have a chance to steady himself before he was splayed messily against Malfoy’s chest. The man paused to eye him consideringly. 

“Let’s get some music in here!” one of the Slytherins whooped—Harry thought it might have been Nott. Then, to his mortification, he heard a clattering behind the bar, and the usual background music switched to something faster, more upbeat. 

Oh fuck—people were watching them again, weren’t they?

As if reading the thoughts from across his face, Malfoy grinned a wicked, private smile, then drew him into a step backwards, then forwards, then a tight, unanticipated spin. _Was he…was he_ copying _the dance Harry had done?_

If so, he was doing it much better. 

Whereas the steps had been perfunctory and reckless from Harry, Malfoy made them feel fluid and practiced. His turns were effortless; his timing was perfect—his hands were steady as they guided Harry through a dance that was as intoxicating as it was frightening. 

“Is that _Harry Potter_ and—”

He turned to locate the voice in the crowd, but Malfoy’s hand, just coming down from spinning him, grabbed him by the chin and turned Harry’s face sharply back to face him. Harry gulped as Malfoy’s hand slipped back to interlace with his, and those fiery, gunmetal eyes met his with infinite challenge. 

He was terribly turned on, and he hated himself for it.

Malfoy led him on in a series of flashier and more complicated steps, and Harry realized that he’d been foolish to view dancing as inherently opposite of fighting. They were fighting still—just in new and unexplored ways. 

The song was slowing, and Malfoy dipped Harry elaborately one more time before pulling him to a stop, front and center. While his nemesis was barely flushed from the exercise, Harry himself was panting. The realm of “dance” was a formidable battlefield, it seemed. 

A sudden clap broke the hush that had settled over the room, startling Harry from where he’d been wordlessly staring at Malfoy. He tore his gaze away to see that it was Ginny. 

“You did great out there, Harry!” she cheered, and somehow that managed to break the claustrophobic layer of tension pervading the pub. The Slytherins began clapping as well, shouting, “You showed him, Draco!” and then people all over the pub were laughing and clapping, comforted in the idea that this was all just some absurd dare. 

Which…was good—it gave him an out. Harry told himself that was good.

“ _That’s_ how you ask someone to dance,” Draco whispered smugly to him, and something about that just rankled Harry enough to possess him to do what he did next. Something about that supercilious tone, the way he looked like he’d won _again_ —even though Harry had done his part too. He’d answered Malfoy’s challenge; he’d kept up with the dance and then some.

Indignant thoughts like these were what filled his head as he decided to up the ante. Without thinking it out any further, Harry grabbed Malfoy by the front of the jumper and hauled him into a kiss. 

He had been expecting maybe a slap, definitely a spattering of Malfoy’s undignified stuttering. What he _wasn’t_ prepared for was the way Malfoy surged into the kiss like he’d been waiting for it all night. His hands shot out to tangle in Harry’s hair, and before he could question it, Harry was doing the same. 

Thoughts of winning fled his mind as Malfoy’s tongue licked against his, and then he found himself helplessly— _hopelessly_ —enthralled by the man he’d snogged as a dare. 

“You _are_ a little snake,” Malfoy laughed with wonder, when he pulled back enough for a breath. 

And Harry, knowing his line, and—this time—that there was no room for miscommunication, tugged Malfoy back in by his jumper, so that he was speaking the words against his lips. “If I’m a snake, then let’s rattle.”

And they did. 


End file.
